Goodbye Charlie, Hello Vietnam.

Nineteen. I was ten and nine. Two A.M. Landed in some muggy, putrid place. Between honor and complete disgrace. Smelled like that for sure.  Issued tools of our trade. Heard the true sound of “rockets red glare”. Had us hunkering in bunkers all night. ******* in our helmets. Holding our ears. ****, the first night. Welcome to Vee-et-nam.

Morning. Sunshine and quiet. Except the rap from old timers. “Newbies“. New jungle fatigues. Newbies. New M-16. Clean boots. All day the old timers, telling each other how these newbies had their cherry popped. First night in country and the biggest *** mortar attack they had ever seen. Heard. Heard, I said. Yeah. What newbie? Now you have heard the real rockets’ red glare. That’s what you heard, Newbie.

I get it. Newbies are ****. We are **** and they aren’t going to waste a breath telling us anything. Watch. Watch and learn. I hope. Lines. Lines to get our teeth rinsed with fluoride. Lines. To chow. To get more shots. To in country orientation. Lines. Memorize lines. Lines to get ammo. Lines to get orders.

No line at the outhouse. Gray three seater. Heat roasting our ****. Old timer kicked the planks before he sat down beside me in the stench. I asked the question but only with my eyes. Kick the planks before you sit down so rats won’t bite your ***** off. Kick the planks to scare off the rats. Rats. The size of possum. Not an exaggeration. Possum rats. Rat possums. Who the hell knew? Just kick the planks. Save your *****.

More lines. Then darkness. Then more booms. Not incoming. Our own. 1-5-5s. Learn the difference newbie so you don’t crap your drawers for nothing. That’s the boys in that artillery firebase keeping Charlie awake for the night. Returning the favor. Charlie. Sounds like a name you would call someone who was a buddy doesn’t it? Charlie. Victor Charlie. V C. ***** Charlie. **** Charlie. Charlie this and Charlie that. Oh, Charlie would eat that rat.

My first duty. Guarding Charlie. Prisoner with leg blown off at the knee in our clean smelling dispensary. Hands strapped to bed rails. MP and I assigned night shift. Keep each other awake . Looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at me. Smirk. Then spit. Landed on my boot. My newbie boot. Not a newbie boot anymore. Charlie squirms. Spits again and misses. MP gets up and threatens to bash Charlie in Charlie’s little head. Medic comes and gives squirming, smirking, spitting Charlie shot of good drugs. Charlie doesn’t spit on medic. Charlie gets drowsy. I get drowsy. MP falls asleep. I stand up. Newbie afraid to fall asleep on guard duty. I wake the MP before shift change. Charlie is up. Smirk, smirk. Thus spoke Charlie. The only conversation I ever had with Charlie.

Medic says Charlie getting on a bird to someplace. Can’t remember where. Anyplace.   Charlie leaving and me staying. Ain’t that a hoot--all it cost him was a boot. Envy is a word I learned that day. Cost him part of a leg medic says when I tell him I wish I was Charlie just then. Had heard tales about people shooting off their toes to get out of the ‘nam. “**** tales” I would call them, since I heard so many in those gray crappers. Rats. Possum rats and your *****. ***** or a limb? Did I really want to be him? I don’t really remember. I didn’t want to be there--somewhere between honor and complete disgrace. Bye Charlie. Hello Vietnam.

By Arcassin Burnham


Separate,
The inner hate,
Leaving scraps on the dinner plate of
A life promise to yesterdays,
come at your throat and disgrace your
name,
But who am I to be a burden,
**** man I am the burden,
A bird then yet to not soar when our kind
wins,
But still stuck in an endless loop of sin,
Where the crisis actors get awards
nowadays for mocking an human's end,
You outta be ashamed but you aren't,
The world is messed up,
But I'm smart,
I love to make beautiful words out of a
circumstance in some lines that
shatter hearts,
But in a good way,
But what do you say?
Will the ignorance play a part in this today?
is it too late ? Can you ever be saved?
Became what you hate the most but
Still you pray? We all do.
/

It doesn't have to end like you think it
does,
Plotting on the enemy might be a must,
Looking at your own burial kicking dust,
Trying not to fall in love with a succubus,
Be a man , its hard enough to be on my
own,
Anxiety takes over my temple and exits
my throne,
I can not even trust anyone at home,
Why won't the devil just leave us all
alone?

things will get better.
‎things will get better.
things will get better.
‎things will get better.

I was on my own, needed no more help.
Where were you when I needed all that
help?
No family support behind me.
When I was in trouble , did you believe
me?

With your inner peace , you could truly be
free with a bundle of dreams and two
seater, two seater,
All of my friends are imaginary people
in a land of truth seekers , truth seeker.
With your inner peace , you could truly be
free with a bundle of dreams and two
seater, two seater,
All of my friends are imaginary people
in a land of truth seekers , truth seeker.

[Verse 1]
I wanna be free, I wanna just live
Inside my Cadillac, that is my ****
And I throw it up (I throw that up)
That's what it is (that's what it is)
In my C A D I L L A C ***** (******)
Can't see me through my tint (nah ah)
I'm riding real slow (slow motion)
In my paint wet drippin' shining like my 24's (umbrella)
I ain't got 24's (no oh)
But I'm on those Vogues
That's those big white walls, round them hundred spokes
Old school like old English in that brown paper bag
I'm rolling in that same whip that my granddad had
Hello haters, **** y'all mad
30k on the Caddy, now how backpack rap is that?

[Hook: Hollis]
I Got that off-black Cadillac, midnight drive
Got that gas pedal, leaning back, taking my time
I'm blowin' that roof off, letting in sky
I shine, the city never looked so bright

[Verse 2]
Man I'm lounging in some **** Bernie Mac would've been proud of
Looking down from heaven like **** that's stylish
Smilin', don't pay attention to the mileage
Can I hit the freeway? I'm legally going 120
Easy weaving in and out of the traffic
They can't catch me, I'm smashing
I'm ducking bucking them out here
I'm lookin' ******' fantastic, I am up in a classic
Now I know what it's like under the city lights
Riding into the night, driving over the bridge
The same one we walked across as kids
Knew I'd have a whip but never one like this
Old school, old school, candy paint, two seater
Yea, I'm from Seattle, there's hella Honda Civics
I couldn't tell you about paint either
But I really wanted a Caddy so I put in the hours
And roll on over to the dealer
And I found the car, junior, problem with this geezer
Got the keys in and as I was leaving I started screaming

[Hook: Hollis]
I Got that off-black Cadillac, midnight drive
Got that gas pedal, leaning back, taking my time
I'm blowin' that roof off, letting in sky
I shine, the city never looked so bright

[Verse 3: Schoolboy Q]
Backwoods and dope
White hoes in the backseat snorting coke
She doing line after line like she's writing rhymes
I had it hella my love, tryna blow my mind
Cadillac pimpin', my uncle was on
14, I stole his keys, me and my ****** was gone
Stealin' portions of his liquor, water in the Patron
Rather smiling like I won the ******* lottery homes
(******' lottery homes)
Tires with the spokes on it in the 4-2
Mustard and mayonnaise, keeping the buns on 'em
My dogs hanging out the window
Young as whoosh, ******' like we ball
Tryna **** em all, **** the ******' wimps
See what's poppin' at the mall, meet a bad *****
Slap her ***** with my palms
You can smoke the *****, I was tearing down the walls
I'm *******' awe,some
Swear these eyes tryna hypnotize
Grip the leather steering wheel while I grip the thighs
See the lust stuck up in her eyes
Maybe she like the ride or did she like the smoke?
Girl does she want it low?
This **** a Coupe de Ville so you'll never know
So we cool with ******, my ***** **** the limit
Got a window tinted for showing gangstas in it
Slice off when the gas is finished, Q

[Hook: Hollis]
Off-black Cadillac, midnight drive
Got that gas pedal, leaning back, taking my time
I'm blowin' that roof off, letting in sky
I shine, the city never looked so bright

I Got that off-black Cadillac, midnight drive
Got that gas pedal, leaning back, taking my time
I'm blowin' that roof off, letting in sky
I shine, the city never looked so bright

The Starship Galaxy III came in
To land in a farmer’s field,
There wasn’t much of a barley crop
For the seed had failed to yield,
The city lay just a mile away
In a glow of flashing lights,
‘I wonder how they manage to sleep,’
Said the Captain, Arzen Kytes.

They’d travelled across the universe
In a push through hyper space,
For seven years at the speed of light
In a bid to seek and trace,
They’d followed the trail of radio waves
From near to a distant sun,
And ended up in the Milky Way
Where the sounds were coming from.

‘There has to be life out there,’ they’d said,
‘We’re surely not alone,
We’ll send a mission to check them out,
To see what they’re like at home,
They must have a crude technology
To be able to transmit,’
And now in sight of the city lights
They were on the verge of it.

‘There’s oxygen in the air out there,
It’s much the same as home,
It’s safe to send out a party in
The seven seater drone,
So under the Captain, Arzen Kytes
They flew to a city square,
But the skyscrapers were neglected
And the weeds were thick out there.

They roamed through many department stores
Now empty of displays,
And passed by stores that were boarded up,
‘This town’s seen better days!’
Nobody walked the city streets
And the Captain shook his head,
‘Whatever happened to bring them down,
It looks like they’re all dead!’

But then in an old computer shop
They saw a sign of life,
A dozen or so of bobbing heads,
An old man and his wife,
But nobody said a single word
Or looked when they came in,
But kept on pushing the buttons of
Some tool that glowed within.

The old man opened his mouth and spoke,
‘You’re not from round these parts.
I saw the flivver you just flew in,
We’re back to the horse and cart.
This generation is not so bright,
They don’t know how to speak,
The gift of language has passed them by
Now all that they do is tweet.’

‘When most of the population died
With famine, came disease,
The crops were genetically modified
And killed off all the bees,
So nothing is pollinated now
But the bit we do by hand,
It wasn’t enough to save the world
From the greed that ruined the land.’

‘But what about all the city lights,
They’re flashing still, in truth!’
‘Everything came with flashing lights
To hypnotise our youth.
We may get help from a distant star
If they see them flash in space,
But once the power goes off, we’ll see
The end of the human race.’

The Captain of the Galaxy III
Flew back to board his ship,
When questioned by the rest of the crew
He frowned, and bit his lip,
‘There’s signs of a civilisation here
But they’ve let it go to seed,’
And smiled at the gentle irony,
‘The fools gave in to greed!’

David Lewis Paget

She walked through life, alone.
Content.
Happy with smelling
the concrete, fresh after the rain.
With watching
the sunset from her bedroom window.
With picking
flowers from a garden, stuffing it in her breast pocket.

With cooking alone, enjoying a meal for one on her two seater couch, with a glass of wine.
Falling asleep with Tolstoy and Oscar Wilde late at night.
She was happy, content,
she always felt like something might be missing but it never gave her reason to fear, to put her life on pause.

Then
He came along and showed her what it was like to live beside someone,
to share.
He taught her how to walk in the rain,
he taught her how to breathe,
how to feel the sun on her skin,
how to enjoy the feeling left in her fingertips.

He taught her how to be the flower and not just steal its glory,
how to be someone,
others stole glory from.

He taught her how to care, how to love.
He shared her two seater and her wine.
She learned to cook for two and not just one.

At night her poetry lay untouched at her bedside table.
His voice, his warmth - her remedy.
Suddenly, she felt the hole start to fill.
She loved it most when he made her laugh and when he smiled.

Her favourite was when he used his surname in the place of her own.
When he would talk of their future,
their kids,
their home.
She felt safe and strangely at home wherever he was.
She was happy.

Then
One day, he became different.
Stopped talking of their future,
their home,
their life.
He stopped sharing her two seater,
stopped holding her at night.
Without warning or notice - she was alone.

She forgot how to breathe and how to feel the sun,
how to be a flower,
how to fall asleep at night,
the hole she barely felt before became bigger and bigger,
and that was all she could feel,
the emptiness,
the pain,
the coldness that consumed her.
She forgot how to laugh.
She found her own future to be a blurred sight.
She couldn't remember how to love, how to care, how to feel.

She lost sight of everything.
She couldn't find her way back to where she was.
Everything felt out of place, out of context.
She never wanted to love again.
She feared she never would.

I should have skeletons in my closet,
but they've yet been stripped of their flesh,
and I've let them loose in this small town
for a game of hide 'n' seek.

She returned a set of my pajamas, unwashed,
her intoxicating scent lingering on hooks in my closet
where her aroma constructs an illusion.

I bury my face in them,
feeling my damp cheeks pressed into her *******,
reaching down below where my hand grasps her posterior
where it takes a firm shape in the loose garments.

I dig into the scent until I go crazy;
I tell myself I'll wash them next week.

I should have skeletons in my closet,
but she's taken it on the road,
in a small town parading it down empty streets
where I can see it clearly,

her oblong sunglasses darkly obfuscating
what I perceive to be her pejorative gaze,
over a narrow ivory face,
sandy blonde hair flowing in the wind.

(I still feel, yes, that smooth pale face cupped within my trembling hands, that sandy hair tangled around my fingers reaching up the back of her neck, pressing her face more towards mine)

I look for the shallow dent
in her ubiquitous red minute two-door seater
on the passenger side, where she was gently T-*****
by a student driver practicing their three-point turn,
and the smiley-face lemon-scented air freshener
dangling from her rear-view mirror,
having lost its freshness years ago.

(I still see, yes, us in that hardware store parking lot,
in the closed evening hour,
sitting cramped in the passenger seat,
her knees on either side of me,
our shirts off and skin warm and sweaty, nervous,
trembling, trembling, lips aching and souls yearning--
where were we headed to again?)

I look for it so intensely,
I forgot my goal was to never see it again.

          Young love looking for little things in a small town.

For years I play this game of hide 'n' seek,
and part of me should realize
that at some point she got up from her hiding spot
and moved on with her life.

(and no, I won't look at her engagement photos,
nor the photos of her newborn child,
nor the Happy Anniversaries and the congratulatory sentiments--
I can see them without social media's derision)

I still scan the streets
like a vulture over roadkill,
yet I thought I was the one
engraved into the grainy streets
where she commutes over my remains.

I should have skeletons in my closet,
but I let them walk out of my life
so I can chase them all over town.

Closed doors, open windows,
Long distance calls between two singles.
Dinner for one on a six seater table,
another romantic comedy on cable.
Karaoke set untouched,
mirror on the wall frequently watched.
Wine glasses in the sink,
monotonous thoughts with plentiful time to think.
Just Jump

Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions

hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee

all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner

well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

She walked up the stairs, swiped her metro card and made her way up the stairs to the platform. As she walked towards the front end so she could get on the second car of this F train headed to Manhattan, she felt the cold winter wind snap at her. Pulled up her collar and wrapped her arms around herself bracing for the cold.

She was wearing blue jeans with boots over them – a small black ski-jacket with a red scarf. Her hair, shoulder length blonde was covered by a knit cap, also black.

It was the 5th or 6th month of her working at the Union Square Barnes and Noble. She still wasn't even sure what her role was there, her title was “Music Manager” yet there were two other “Music Managers” there as well. She enjoyed working there because she loved to see so many people enjoying the books, music and the other stuff that they sold there. She also loved to sit during her breaks and read. She loved to read anything that was written around the 1920’s. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, T.S. Eliot, Edith Wharton, and so many more.

She had always felt “different” from her peers and this caused her to find herself alone some nights watching TV or forcing herself to write on her blog.

Julia was 26 years old and had graduated from Kingsborough College 4 years earlier. She had thought about graduate school but then realized that she really wasn't interested in any specific degree or even future.

She had been diagnosed with depression back when she was 16 years old. She had never tried to **** herself nor hurt herself but would spend too much time in her room and away from any social life.

When she was 18 and a freshman at college she fell in love with Mitchell, a senior with four different girlfriends and a future as a politician. When she found out about one of his other girlfriends she broke up with him. It was a couple of nights later that she found out about the others while browsing through Facebook. The fact that she had been so blind and naive to not even catch any clue that he was actually dating 3 other girls, hurt more then the loss of having him around. She was hurt and she closed herself off from any social life after that.

“It wasn't the fact that he was with the other girls, it was the fact that I was stupid enough to fall for someone like that. Thank God we never had *** – that would have really put me under.” She had told this to her therapist and the therapist only cared about asking her. “Why didn't you have ***?” She felt creeped out and stopped seeing him.

Her friends tried to bring her out of her slump but it was way above their ability. Love can heal all things but some wounds can only be soothed not healed.

The darkness in her room followed her  wherever she went.  It wasn’t until her 26th Birthday when she decided to go to see a different psychiatrist, a female Doctor this time. Towards the end of her first appointment it was suggested that she should begin taking medication. She felt she could help herself without taking any medication.
“When you feel you want to try them out you just let me know. We would begin with a very low dose…”

She saw the train in the distance approaching in its snail like pace. The wind, the cold and the clouds all conspiring to make it feel as if the train is at a standstill just two blocks or so away. Finally the train crawled in and came to a stop; the sound of the doors opening, the electronic ding-**** and the voice – “next stop Avenue N, stand clear of the closing doors.”

She finds a seat by the window of a two-seater row. She likes to look through the window and watch as the different scenes come into view and just as quickly disappear. It reminds her that her’s is not the only world that exists. That the world does not truly revolve around her. She watches as the train rolls along McDonald Avenue; school van picks up children, two people are sitting eating breakfast on a second floor apartment directly across from the train. She concocts different ideas of what they are conversing about – are they expressing happiness and love or are they scared and feeling alone?

She looks inside and sees an older man reading a hard cover religious book, perhaps the Talmud or something? Two seats to the left of him is a Haitian woman speaking on her cellphone in Creole – really loudly. He looks towards her and nods his head in disapproval. Down the way a large man sits eating with his jacket open revealing his sizable girth, as if in pride? he is downing a bagel and licking the cream cheese to avoiding it from spilling over. He has a Yoohoo chocolate drink in between his legs and is in some sort of comatose gorging ecstasy. A lady is applying makeup to her cheeks and when the train stops at Avenue N she draws her eyeliner pencil under her eyes – framing her Asian eyes with the imperfect blue she decided to use.

Avenue N and the doors open to a black man wearing a yarmulke and looking Jewish but for the color of his skin, in these parts at least. He is of Ethiopian descent and is Orthodox – she knows this because she once heard him speaking to another passenger on the train. A fifty-ish lady walks on and is, of course, on her phone giving orders to one of her children, it seems. Julia looks away and checks her phone – no alerts, no emails, no missed calls. “Next stop Bay Parkway.”

Across from her on the other side of the train, she can see the Verrazano Bridge and outside her window she can see thousands of graves lined up. She thinks about their lives – mothers, fathers – they were all once babies who needed to be fed, dressed and changed.

“Snap out of it! She tells herself.” She stood up as if to wash crumbs off of her clothing – shook a bit and sat back down again. She would not, could not allow the darkness to seep back in again. It always began with a thought…since she finally gave in and had been on meds for a little over a month, the fog had begun to lift a bit. A bit. The “low dose” had been doubled since her first week and now she began to “See a little clearer, is that one of the benefits?”
“You are seeing more clear because you are not running as fast as you used to. You are slowing down and able to live at a healthy pace. So now the colors you once defined as green, yellow and blue have a deeper meaning to you, am I right?”
“Yes, its as if I can focus now>”

She looked out the window, looked back into her bag and took her book out. “The Corrections,” she had yet to read it but loved the title. In her mind she had pictured it as someone in the middle of their life who decides to make “Corrections.” She was afraid to begin reading it because she knew it wasn’t about that, specifically, and preferred the definition in her head.

“I am making corrections these days.” She thought to herself.
The fact that she decided it was time for her to take the leap and swallow a pill once a day was proof in itself. “I want to be the best I can be, to enjoy life…” Lately she has been having vivid dreams – only to wake up, try to remember only to forget quickly.

The train goes underground and where once she would get anxious she now welcomed it as if an embrace.

“Too many stops to go until I find my way…” She heard a voice inside of her say, or sing? Or was that the lady behind her?

“Too many corrections to make within myself so I can even begin to find my way anywhere.” She thinks to herself as if answering someone.

“Corrections…yes…can it be as simple as that? Look within myself and accept what is wrong and right and make some corrections?”

She walked off the train at 14th Street and found her way upstairs and out onto 6th Avenue. She walked east towards Union Square and felt the cold air hitting her face – feeling like a pale of freezing water in the August heat.

She feels a bit more at ease and knows that there is a change happening and it could be from that small pill. A sense of hope, not full blown hope but a ray and that is more than she has felt in a long time.

She looks across Union Square and sees the celebrations of everyday life on display. Men painted in silver and gold, a clown dancing or riding in a small child’s bicycle, chess players lined up and waiting for challengers. People walking quickly chasing time trying to catch up or outrun it. Cold wind blowing pieces of paper high up – churning around and around.

She looks up, crosses the small street, smiles at the guard, opens the door and walks inside.

italicThere are countless stories of people in this world chasing memories, dreams or hopes that were once so vibrant – now laying dormant on the side of empty streets. Ghost towns where youth and optimism were once at play in the streets where dreams were erected only to fall in a lost battle against the ultimate thief – time. Julie turned out to be one of the happy stories in this world…she ended up meeting her cousin at the store that same day. He was with a friend of his named David – he smiled and she smiled back. Sometimes good things do happen and they happen when you least expect them to. She is still working on her corrections and has yet to even read the first page of the book.

The curves on this cobalt two-seater
are so **** beguiling.  ****!

The arcs and contours swerve
through my tangled imagination.

Heh...I am a hopeless romantic
parked in a speedster, dreaming of driving.

I laugh at myself because...how like me
to pick a car that reminds me of you.

I mean, we have yet to experience the pleasure
of meeting each other, but I have seen you before--

My God, I have seen you before--
My trembling hand at the small of your back...

The hypnotic aria of our intimate silence…
The way your laughter heals my pain...

I am alone, but I am driven to find you,
to meet you, to break free of my familiar

Nostalgia made me bitter, turned my love
into a fleeting spirit that burns the palette

Space.  She needed, “Space…”
When did my embrace become a cage?

Space.  She needed, “Space…”
When did bawling in pain become my normal?

I am alone, but I am driven to find you,
to meet you, to break free of this familiar

I thought love was a destination
that could not be reached.

An elusive location that I longed for,
but was too afraid to take the driver’s seat.

I was a hopeless passenger, happy
to be along for someone else’s ride

I have steadied my breath, wiped my eyes
in order to see you clearly.

Whoever you are, wherever you are,
please know that I am driven to find you.

Soon, we’ll hop into this two-seater
and neither of us will be alone.

even tho the fire was never really lit truly human,
their tousled hair and sad eyed lowland blues owning the fullness of natural emptiness ain’t no crime, like a double negative,
to which no one no cares no objects when spoken

those bad boysenberries radiate a flirty tarty aure, venus fly traps
for those needy to do a saving, the sweets of the the three poems
memorized for wooing, oft another’s undoing, the top button
releasing a burning bush of chest heat
being misleading the  reddening cheeks

was a bad boy once of ill repute, daddies and mommies warning
their innocents of my word of mouth reputation, making me 100%
irresistible, so all forgot when climbing into my two-seater to go
moon gazing swooning,  learning the moves practiced in nightime

bad boys still need saving sooner but usually later, cause
moon gazing is still a thrill for his new audience of grand children,
proof that some of them boys are hiding well enough stuff
beneath their veneer

be the miner of a thousand years, teach these child boys well,
crack them open, let the empty escape and light rays spill in
**** if some of those bad boys grow up
now, just to be  bad poets laughing
at the foolishness of the early days of
discontented shortsightedness incontinence of a soul fumbling

It’s been three years.
As I drag myself from the wreckage of yet another crash
Lungs full of smoke and skin seared with burns
I can’t help but think of that day
Three years ago
When we stopped playing hide-and-seek
Each of us circling the same gorgeous little two-seater
Each of us refusing to believe we were not alone in the hangar—
When we finally climbed into the cockpit
Admitted that we wanted to fly this thing
And started preparing for takeoff.
It hummed to life like it had been waiting for us
To put our hands to the controls
Like it was not a machine to be flown
But a connection and extension of our very minds
How it leapt down the runway and soared into the sky!
How glorious the flight through clear blue skies!
How terrible the storm that hit.
Enveloped by black clouds
Tossed to and fro by the wind
We wrestled with the elements
And then my controls locked up.
A moment of panic—
“This thing can’t fly without two pilots!”
A desperate grab for the handle by my feet
One last look at my copilot
Then a sharp tug, a violent flinging into darkness.
I don’t know how you piloted out of that storm
How you got that thing out of the sky
But when I tracked you to the landing site
(After months frozen to my ejection seat
Numb and unable to move)
I could see it was in bad shape
Beyond repair? I didn’t think so
But I arrived just in time to see you walk away
Your helmet, left in the dust by a bent and twisted wing
The last reminder of you.
They say you’ve taken wing again
A new copilot at the controls
(I catch glimpses of a tiny speck high overhead sometimes)
And after three years I can naught but wish you well
But, burned and ****** from my last disaster
I cannot help but sit here on the ground
And dream of the sky.

I only love you when I'm sober,
so I've been high for, about, I'd say
2.27 weeks?? wild, I know. what
can I say? I just
hate being alone with
the mere thought of you,
cloying and *******, ecstasy
in my endorphins. Newport on my lips
and nicotine in my system; emotions
encased in agar, Petri dish replicants.
sugar skulls crushed beneath timbs and
honey beneath my cuticles and
white wine in the freezer frosting up.
chocolate ganache sealing my tongue
like a sarcophagus and I'm daydreaming
about halcyon days gone by
screaming along to the radio in
your sunsoaked two-seater.

the struggle was never real
i put it on myself
been thinking about some stuff I wish I never did
if there's a pill to make some people forget about how I used to be I'd go broke buying them
I remember every feeling and its a love hate thing
burgundy carpets smell like my ashed get aways
fabreeze helped a little
running on albuterol but still the fastest
my dosage is high but you're breathing harder
my mind has been scattered all day I need someone to tell me something about how they feel about me
don't know what matters and I dont know if it should matter
my sd card is running out of space, I need some space
been ducking the wind lately
im convinced im fairly happy but im not a fair type of person
my way beats the highway so **** a double seater
a coupe is nice but I've damaged my lungs too much to damage the earth
time isn't so much of a problem anymore so I ride my bike slowly, no need for the speed shifts
Im shirtless only when I'm alone at home, what does that tell you?
I wanna try a different genre but people wont **** with me, tears dry anyway
change is good

Dalya was sitting
with her brother
beside me
in the 9 seater

mini bus
the Yank girl
was at the front
with the driver/guide

and some other prat
who was a teacher
we'd passed into Germany
and were travelling along

to the next base camp
I was reading
Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag book
what's that about?

Dalya asked
Russian labour camps
between 1918 and 1958
I said

heavy
she said
haven't you
anything lighter?

no
I said
I only brought this
to fill in the time

between camps
looks boring
she said
the death of millions

can never be boring
I said
some of my relations
died in the **** camps

she said
her brother said
Auschwitz Uncle and Auntie
died in and our grandparents

so not boring then
I said
Dalya shrugged
her shoulders

guess not
she looked away
I read on for a while
I thought of Dalya

the evening before
at the first base camp
after putting up the tents
she said

that Yank *****
did nothing
to put our tent up
stood there yakking

to the driver/guide
she in her leathers
and tight pants
and I have to

share with her
and it's all about
what she's doing
and how the guys

are all over her
and she with the posh
sleeping bag
and Dalya went on

over drinks
at the base camp bar
you can always
share with me

I said
why would I?
she said
why wouldn't you?

I said
I’ve only just met you
the other day
she said

what do you
take me for?
a pretty girl
out for a good time

in a foreign land
I said
I can't anyway
she said

she's in my tent
and my brother
shares with you
she was right of course

but the thought
was there
even if
the opportunity wasn't

she glared
at the Yank girl's head
in front
I read about

the NKVD
or whatever
they were called
and sensed Dalya's body

next to mine
her thigh touching
against me
I closed the book

and looked out
at the passing view
at fields
and trees

and the sky
of washed out blue.

Towering buildings, 2-seater cars, Fancy things
A day in the city, a day in the real jungle
Uneasiness' drawn by my face
Where's my game-face on?

My dad and his friend driving out to the pasture to sit in the pickup truck and talk about what?  How the cows are doing, the upcoming hunting season, growing quail, fishing, the state of the country.
I don't know what these men talked about but they spent hours together.
While they were out talking Eunice and Marie sat smoking in the living room, discussing stuff. I could sit and listen to them for hours, but don't remember what they talked about. Maybe Marie would get out one of her poems or show my Mama some of her ceramics or paintings.
We girls would dance together the bop to the latest 50's music or we would ride our horses through the pastures and at night we would play Scarin' with their brother-a hide and seek game in the dark.
We spent every weekend together, eating greens, fried cornbread and chicken.  I always thought I was Marie's favorite because she was always so kind to me. She was a kind of Earth Mother, quite different from my own Mama.  Sometimes Sonny, the boy, would get in trouble because we girls would tell on him for throwing corncobs at us. Then Marie would go after him with a skillet, a switch or a paddle, whatever was handy.
Lamar had been in WWII and had been too close to a grenade. He developed terrible skin cancers which left horrid scars on his face. When I was 15, he died and Marie started working in the Catholic School so the three kids could still attend.
Here we were the Baptists (us) and the Catholics (them) never realizing that our friendship in rural Mississippi was a bit unusual.  Mama would lend her Bible to Marie because the Catholic church did not allow the people to read and interpret for themselves at that time.  
When we were really young, the family lived in an old unpainted two-story house with Lamar's Dad-Cap'n-a strict old grumpy German who we tried to stay away from.  We would come up from Louisiana when I was four and spend the night for the nine months we lived in Louisiana.
Saturday night baths were in a tub-four girls first, then Sonny last-he was a boy and the dirtiest.  No running water and a two-seater outhouse. Those were the days...

Your stare an aphrodisiac; a small heart attack, systematically stimulating, straining my self control.
Your hair provokes my amorous glare, tearing down the walls of insecurity and worry.
Your eyes, even behind the lies, a sweet surprise as luminous as any sunrise;
save your good byes, no need to cut ties.
Your thighs catalyze my emotion quicker than any wave in the ocean.
Your flaws, minuscule in demeanor, as beautiful as a souped up two seater.
You are a movie and I'm just sitting in the theater.

If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.

They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.

All love, he will say,
Is Divine.

God does not bless sin, said Papa.

Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.

Still waging in the wonder
Of how I ended here
From my tender beginnings
To a path that's never clear

With a dog named Bruno
And a cat called Mars
Chasing after each others tails
In and out between foreign cars

A shadow at my feet
That follows me around
Sneaking up on me
Silence its favorite sound

And show tunes from the 50's
Playing over in my head
From My Fair Lady, The King And I
To the Music Man

With a sticker on my window
That shows baby on board
And me being single
I have to wonder what it's for

I always arrive for Fridays
On late Saturday night
All by myself
On a two seater bike

I've got a spitting image
Of who I used to be
Now that I look at myself
I hardly recognize me

I go around in circles
From the left to right
Always walking backwards
Trying to slow down time

In this desert life of mine
I'm my own mirage
Where what I hope to find
I also try to dodge

Most of my days are spent
Trying to make sense
And if you care to count the change
Could you tell me what the cents is

I watch
as Yehudit
walks towards me,
the sway of her hips,

her hair held back
with grips,
her blue eyes lowered,
her hands

in the pockets
of her dark green coat.
It's late November,
chill winds,

greying sky;
we meet on the edge
of the woods.
Got held up,

she says,
Mum wanted me
to help fold
the washing.

She knows you're here
meeting me?
Yes, of course,
although didn't

say where;
she assumes
it's at your house
with your mother

keeping an eye.
She looks towards
the wood.
May have been

a better idea,
than out here,
she says.
We can go

to my place
if you like,
my mother
won't mind.

Then we won't
be alone.
Yehudit looks at me.
We can always sit

in the front lounge,
I suggest,
no one goes
in there much.

She looks
at the woods.
Ok, then,
your house it is.

We make our way
towards the house,
through the back gate,
in through

the back door.
My mother's at the stove,
preparing dinner,
steam rising

from the pots and pans.
Ok, if we go  
through to
the front lounge?

I ask her.  
Hello, Yehudit;
sure you can,
she says,

watching as we walk
through the middle room
into the front lounge
and close the door.

We sit in
the two seater settee.
Her hand finds mine.
We're next to each other.

No wind, no rain,
just us, alone;  
outside
the pitter patter

of rain,
and the wind's moan.

i threw myself into politics
then had to get home.
i ran to the train.
i'm sat. book open.
she's sat opposite,
also with a book.
how visions of the future blossom from aleatory situations!
what virtual constellations reveal themselves in these celestial scope revolutions of ideas!
how all the categories are shook!
some blokes are sat near in a four seater,
three of them i think, i dare not look. (why are they always in packs?)
they're complaining about the football game
i didn't know had been played in the city we're leaving,
and extolling how they've been drinking since this morning
(it's almost 8PM now)
and they're rather quite loud.
one of them says everyone is reading Harry Potter.
another says "******* is it Harry Potter."
"it's like a library in here." "i don't read."
they start to talk about ****** foreigners and ******* birds.
"that one behind you is alright, ey, ey."
they're talking about her.
i, all the while: an immigrant's son, a cowardly statue
whose basic elements had been rendered into fury.
i try to tell myself:
these are my working class brothers, my fellow sufferers,
a picture of people i'm fighting for...
it's even for people like them that mothers teach us how to love...
but inescapable is the instinct that they are a lost cause
and that liberating oppressors would be counter-productive.
seeing as i am being cynical:
i, for all my principles and sense of duty,
i who has not read one page since i sat,
my fantasies are just as possessive
even if they are dressed up in metaphysics;
a sordid, crumbling, self-corroding man through and through.
at least my family in the east and spain and greece and elsewhere is still beautiful.
we arrive at our stop. an empty freedom.
the blokes are first to get up. i try to be in time with her;
our eyes meet and she gives a smile i'll remember,
but i didn't really manage to return anything at all.
another lost future i began to fall for;
perhaps i lack the strength to prevent these premature autumns...
well, my silence in the field says it all.

The winter sky is dark, there is no moon;
The taxi’s lights reflects off tin can houses;
Taxi bump, a dog not a speed ****, driver will stop until noon;
Rival taxi speeds past with a bang by the side with the man and his spouse;
Her blood bitterly decorates the 18-seater, Lesha from Khayelitsha.

You told me you were an abandoned building
Left rotting in the sun
Elements creeping in
On your walls and foundation
Tearing down your roof and structure
I am not so
Come with me
I will show you myself

In the skeleton of my head
Ceramic figures sit
Silent, sentient
On cobweb shelves
Pictures of you hang on the walls
Nailed into a flesh colored wallpaper
*****, coffee stained carpeting
Leading from the attic of my mind
Down the back of my skull
Vertebrae circular staircases
Winding down and around
Through floors and floors
Of keratin wainscoting
Dusty shelves overcrowded with books and trinkets
Plastic dinosaurs and matchbox cars
A room full of doll houses
Plastic mommies and daddies
Driving four seater lithium battery powered doll cars
Cooking over two burner stoves with imitation heat
Playing pretend, I know this game best

Rooms with filing cabinets stacked up to the ceiling
When you pull out the drawers
Files and paperwork going back and back and back
Blue crayon bills of sale
Newspapers and emails color coded for different emotional reactions
Red folders with locks, chains, and warning signs
CAUTION FLAMABLE

Rooms empty of windows
***** of string for dust bunny cats
Baby teeth still tethered to the end
Strung between doorknobs and skeletons
The last flight of stairs
Leads straight down to a flooded basement
Salt water filling up cracks in the concrete
Bulkhead door latched shut
A femur stuck between the handles
You'd have to break a bone to escape

You follow your nose down passages
With markings saying 'connect here'
Finding comfort
In the smell of sage burning in between hip bones
Incense rising through chimney stacked ribs
Puffing out through a nasal passage

A few levels above
Curtains and blinds piled on top of each other
Trying to block out light
Pouring in through two blue tinted windows
Hollowed out, stained glass eyes

Mute little birds fly around in a tiny menagerie
Tiny parchment paper scrolls attached to their ankles
House arrest thoughts
Sometimes little rivers over flow
Down a façade of brick walls into little wells
To dry to hold wishes

In the right wing
Traveling down the arm
Little passage ways with doors
Swinging open and shut
Little electric trains blowing stops and whistles
Running around and around
Five little engines
Puffing out coal and smoke
Until they hole themselves up
In tunnels at night

In the left wing
Plates and dishes smashed on the floor
Ceramic shards rearrange themselves
Into mosaics and pictographs
Sliding around on metal tiles
Until they grind themselves into a fine powder
Slipping though the floor
Little skin cells flaking off the siding

Dry scratching noises echo through the tunnel
Back to the skull
At the very crown of the building
Rope makers work tirelessly every day
Stitching brown threads into the ceiling
Packing insulation tight in perfect rows
Until the rain comes in and washes them out
Trying to weatherproof roofing shingles
That act as if they are no thicker than coffee filters

Sometimes the power surges to quickly
Everything goes dark
Batteries overheat
Unable to remember which switch to flip
Which circuit breaker to fix
Which wires to cut, splice, and fuse the ends
Where to put the band-aids so they will stick
Until they get wet
A four battery chamber transformer
Inducting molecules, protons, electrons
Gassing up to restart
Not knowing which end goes to which side
How to get the cover back on
So I don't electrocute myself
Fry the circuits, start a fire

I end up
Sitting in the dark, alarm blaring
Emergency sprinkler system going off
Making puddles of tears
To drown out my fears
All wired up
Overloading and burning out
Turn the wind turbines on
Let them dry up the mess
Blowing fresh air through stale lung chambers

The ache in my stomach refuses to part with me
Empty shelves in the pantry
Don't cry over spilled milk
Tear up, when there is none to spill
Empty glass jars sitting in boiling water
All jammed up
Refusing to cook
Because one time
The gas was, accidentally
Left running, on the burner
Fear is a smell I would prefer die without tasting
A tasteless life no sweeter

I close the doors.
Oaken ribcage of my halls swing shut.
Hinges creaking under the strain
I remember why
I don't let anyone in
It's to cold in here for me
To quiet for them
Hating how I feel
When left lonely
Without a friend
If the dark is all I now how can I fear it
I am not near it
Becoming what I always knew I was
Not a single cut above, or below
Not a mark uncounted
I am the one who makes flowers grow
On the inside of the earth
Down below
Down I go
To dance after death